


Shadows Of The Night

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Animagus, F/M, hermione_smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-21
Updated: 2010-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione's clandestine plan to help solve the mystery of some violent killings goes horribly wrong. Just in the nick of time, an old acquaintance comes to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows Of The Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rose_whispers](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rose_whispers).



> **Disclaimer:** The Potterverse is JKR's, not mine. Written for fun, not profit.  
> **Warnings:** Explicit sexual content (participants are consenting adults), some AU elements, Animagus!Hermione, EWE.  
> **Author's notes:** Written for rose_whispers in the second round of the hermione_smut exchange; I mixed and matched three of her prompts: "Hermione works on becoming an Animagus", "Hermione has a secret" and (sort of) "Hermione gets evicted and is taken in by whomever she's paired with." Plot was also a request, so even though this was written for a smut exchange, there is really more action/adventure here than the other kind of action. Just so you know. ;)

Hermione's heart hammers in her chest, her blood rushes through her veins, and her only certainty is that she has to keep on running.

Four legs may be better than two, but it's all relative when a whole pack is chasing you.

Ten bloodhounds, hot on her trail.

_God._ She has to move faster. There isn't time to catch her breath.

Thinking back, she can hardly believe how stupid she was; how naïve.

She should have carried out more research and studied canine behaviour too, not merely focused on Animagus transformation.

If only she'd had more time at her disposal.

Well, technically, she did, but she was severely lacking in patience.

She wanted to act quickly and to infiltrate into their group as soon as possible. She was too eager to find out what their masters were up to.

The Von Finsterwalds continue to puzzle the authorities. They have yet to set one foot wrong.

Meanwhile, the brutal murders continue, and no one can prove a thing. There is no hard evidence at hand, only strong suspicion, and that's not enough to hold someone.

Not that it would change her current fate if it was.

The plan she once considered to be so cunning turns out to be completely ridiculous in hindsight.

Just look where it got her. She'll end up being violated, ripped to shreds, or worse.

_Is there still a 'worse'? They don't eat their own kind, do they?_

No one will even realise it's her when they find her remains. Unless she transforms back to her human form once she's dead.

Is that what happens? She hasn't a clue, or the time to research that now, either.

Her brown eyes widen.

_Oh bugger._

She ran into a cul-de-sac and is now heading straight towards a solid brick wall.

It's too high to jump. She's trapped.

She halts abruptly, braces herself, and turns around.

There is no means of escape, so she might as well face them, look danger straight in the eye and go down like a brave Gryffindor.

Though one might argue that her Gryffindor recklessness is largely responsible for landing her in this mess in the first place.

They come closer and closer, and the strong odour of decay on their breath makes her flinch in disgust. She silently curses her heightened sense of smell.

If she had her wand, she would hex every single one of them, or Transfigure them into cute, harmless puppies. Chihuahuas would work.

She narrows her eyes and grits her teeth.

She refuses to whimper or howl, even when sharp fangs pierce her neck and the smell of her own blood makes her dizzy.

Despite the fur, teeth and canine tendencies, she's still human on the inside, and she has always had a strong aversion to blood.

The world around her begins to spin until it falls away, spiralling further and further down into a dark abyss.

Just for a moment, she thinks she hears a deep howl, vaguely, in a faraway distance.

Then everything goes pitch black.

***

Somewhere nearby, a fire is crackling. The pleasant aroma of burning wood finds its way to her nostrils as if through a fog.

Hermione slowly slips out of her daze. She carefully pries one eye open, only to quickly shut it again.

Her head is throbbing and even the soft candlelight and the flickering flames of the nearby fireplace are more strain than her tired eyes can stand.

Before she can begin to speculate about the duration of her unconsciousness, it occurs to her that she is still a dog. So blacking out doesn't automatically turn you back into your human form.

She should make a mental note of that, for future reference.

In a rush, they come back to her, the flashes of everything that happened; the frantic running, the ferocious hounds with their obsidian eyes and foul breath and finally, those sharp teeth piercing the sensitive flesh of her neck.

She hasn't a clue how she got here, though, or where 'here' even is.

She hopes it's a safe place.

So far, her surroundings indicate that it is.

No one at the Von Finsterwald Residence would have allowed her to live, except perhaps to torture her, but in that case, she'd be kept in a dark, dungy cellar, not some cosy room with a comfortable sofa, a soft rug and a lit fireplace.

"You're awake," a friendly male voice says. It sounds familiar, though she can't quite place it. She does know it's one she hasn't heard in many years.

She squints her eyes open, determined not to immediately close them this time, and sees a face hovering above her.

The man has red hair, freckles and a staggering amount of scars. They zigzag across his face like roads on a map.

_Goodness._ It's Bill Weasley.

"You should be more careful, girl," he tells her. "They got you good." He pauses a beat and then adds matter-of-factly, "You're an Animagus, aren't you? On the run since the war, maybe?"

She blinks, confused. How can he even tell that she is no ordinary dog?

She needn't ask.

"Ah. I suppose you're not familiar with that potion, are you?" he continues with a grin. "Can't say I'm surprised. It's still in the experimental stages. Doesn't always work either, but when it does, two tiny drops on an animal's skin are all that's required. Your left paw turned purple, young lady." His grin widens. "You know, the ingredients of the brew are still a well-kept secret, technically, but you know those blokes at the Ministry—or you don't, as the case may be. Either way, throw enough dosh or even a morsel of half-arsed information their way, and one of those bastards will sing like a canary."

Hermione blinks once more, this time in acknowledgment. She may be training to become an Auror, but her opinion of the Ministry hasn't changed for the better in recent years. Rather the opposite, in some respects.

"You're lucky I happened to show up when I did," he continues, "and you should count your blessings as well that I know how to treat that type of injuries. I'm like you, you see. Well, more or less, and not by choice." He hesitates. "I'm a werewolf, to be exact; well, as good as."

Hermione keeps her expression as neutral as she possibly can. She isn't sure how successful she is—things work differently when you're a dog—but at least Bill seems convinced.

"That revelation didn't scare you off, eh?" he asks, somewhat cheekily. "Let me guess: you're a former Gryffindor? My whole family was in that House. Even Percy, though if you ask me, he'd have been better off in Slytherin with the other snakes."

Hermione gives another blank stare.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. He redeemed himself in the end, resigned with a bang and in no uncertain terms told them all to stuff their job. None of that changes what he did, though, and it doesn't make up for his condescending attitude over the years either. Some of the things he said to our Mum and Dad... Of course, maybe you already know about all that. Maybe you even know me, or my sister, or one of my brothers."

Fortunately, being a dog prevents Hermione from smiling wryly.

She's a nice dog, too. An Alsatian. Not a poodle as Lavender so mockingly predicted.

Hermione doesn't miss Lavender. The horrible girl probably slept her way into Auror training. She'd never have made it into the advanced group otherwise, or acquired permission to practise becoming an Animagus—permission Hermione, herself, never got.

Reportedly, Lavender's Animagus form is a lamb. How pathetic is that? Those bloodhounds would have been most impressed.

Yes, Hermione decides, it's definitely a good thing Alsatians can't smile.

She remembers it all quite vividly now, how the events unfolded.

She had a plan; one she didn't want anyone else taking the credit for, as some of the instructors are often wont to do.

The killings had been going on for months. Brutal murders that often left the victims mauled beyond recognition.

Rogue Death Eaters would have made ideal suspects, if it weren't for the fact that whoever it is who is committing these heinous crimes doesn't discriminate.

Purebloods are killed in equal measure as Muggleborns and there is no common denominator regarding the victims' heritage, background, political orientation or standing within society.

Furthermore, the Aurors believe that no ordinary human being could be capable of such cruelty.

That leaves the outcasts: the vampires, werewolves and other creatures who dwell on the fringe of both Muggle and Wizarding Society.

It was this theory that eventually led the inquiry towards Ferdinand Von Finsterwald and his family.

The Von Finsterwalds moved from Romania to Britain a year after the war. Rumour has it that they are a clan of vampires, powerful ones with highly trained dogs as their protectors.

Hermione definitely underestimated those dogs. Her plan had been to befriend them, but somehow, they had been able to sense that she was human. They'd rightfully deduced that it was a trap and chased her. They would have killed her too, if Bill hadn't intervened; ripped her from limb to limb.

It was an outcome she couldn't possibly have foreseen, but one thing she now knows with absolute certainty.

Whatever those beasts are, they aren't ordinary dogs, and the Von Finsterwalds definitely aren't law-abiding citizens either, or they wouldn't resort to the use of canine killing machines.

It's just a terrible shame that she didn't manage to gather any proof. She barely escaped with her life, and has nothing even remotely useful to show for it.

A large hand suddenly waves in front of her face. "Hey," Bill says. "Are you hungry, girl?"

Hermione nods slowly. She might as well communicate with him in her dog form. He has already figured her out anyway.

"See,"—he grins triumphantly—"I was right. Just stay right where you are. I'll get you some bacon. You must be starving."

As if on cue, her empty tummy grumbles.

"You were out of it for almost a week, you know, and you still have a long way to go. So, for your own good, don't try to escape. I'm no threat to you. You don't even have to tell me who you are if you don't want to. I just want to get you well again."

With that, he exits the room.

Hermione lets out a long sigh and thinks—not for the first time in the past few years—that she may not be quite as brainy as people claim her to be.

  
***

Three uneventful weeks pass.

Her wounds heal much slower than they would in specialised care, but it isn't as though going to a hospital is a feasible option.

The climate of suspicion is terrible these days, worse than it has been in decades.

Too many people tried to take advantage of the post-war chaos, so not long after Voldemort's defeat, rules and regulations were tightened to protect citizens against each other and themselves.

The Ministry still doesn't look too favourably upon unregistered Animagi. The general assumption is that they must have something to hide, or they wouldn't be so secretive about it.

If Hermione were to seek treatment at St.Mungo's, the Healers would be forced to report her. She'd be arrested as soon as she was well enough, and although she would probably escape formal charges—her valiant war efforts still count for something, after all—she'd have to forget all about ever becoming an Auror, too.

Still, it isn't as though she's in any kind of hurry to recover. She has no pressing appointments. Her undercover mission failed abysmally, and besides, Bill made a good point.

She should count herself lucky that she is still alive, and not battling some nasty infection to boot.

"I have plenty of experience with scars and bite wounds like that," Bill volunteers one afternoon. "I was attacked by a werewolf a few years back. Or should I say: _the_ werewolf? Fenrir Greyback. Nasty bugger. I'm sure you've heard of him. I was at St. Mungo's for ages, and my injuries needed additional treatment long after that. And to top it off, there was the whole 'Oh crap, I'm a werewolf' deal. First the Healers thought it were just wolfish tendencies I was dealing with—cravings for raw steak, that sort of things—but they only got worse over the years, which is why I'm here now, all by myself. Can't trust my own instincts anymore—how messed up is that?"

During many afternoons, Hermione, still in her dog form, listen to him talk; about himself, his family, and sometimes his failed marriage to Fleur.

"She's a good woman, don't misunderstand me, but she was under a lot of pressure back then. As was I." He gives a tight smile. "I still had quite a temper in those days, too. Not to mention that I was pissed off as hell. Still am, really, when I allow myself to think about the whole sordid business for too long." He shakes his head. "All things considered, I'm better off alone. I'm quite happy here, you know, growing vegetables and painting."

Hermione has noticed the paintings. They're all over the cottage. Many of them depict Hogwarts or the Forbidden Forest. Some of them have magical creatures, too—Bill clearly shares Charlie's love for Dragons—painted in colours that must be bright and beautiful when seen through human eyes. There's also a large canvas of an owl that can only be Hedwig.

"Muggles love my work," he tells her. "They're prepared to pay a pretty penny for it too, I've found. I got an interesting offer in the post a few days back. Some publishing company wants me to illustrate a series of children's books. I suppose I'll accept—it'd be foolish not to, financially speaking—so long as no one expects me to show my face in public."

He gives a twisted grin, and suddenly Hermione longs to tell him that there is nothing wrong with his face, or with him full stop, but talking would mean giving her true identity away, and she can't do that. Not now. Possibly not ever, because the more he reveals about himself, the more she dreads him discovering who she really is.

He'd probably be livid to learn that she's his little brother's ex-girlfriend, his almost sister-in-law from once upon a long ago.

In this case, silence is golden—and silver and platinum, too.

"I love kids," he goes on to tell her, "though I suppose I should be glad Fleur and I never had any. Part-werewolf children have a lot of prejudice to contend with, and the owners of the pack that chased you really aren't helping their case."

Hermione thinks of little Teddy Lupin and nods. As far as she knows, the Healers still can't tell whether the boy has inherited his father's Lycanthropy. It might be lying dormant until he comes of age, or it might even end up not manifesting itself at all.

Teddy is only a child, and as yet unaware of many things, but as soon as he realises what he might become, the fear is likely to haunt him until his seventeenth birthday. As if being an orphan isn't bad enough…

"A right bunch of vile bastards, they are," Bill mutters. "The ones that attacked you. They're vampires who've been messing around with Muggle science. They're experimenting with werewolf genes to improve their bloodlines. Sounds like something out of a tacky film, doesn't it? But trust me, I'm not joking."

Hermione points her ears. She wonders how Bill knows about the Von Finsterwalds, and more importantly, what he knows.

Even now, the Ministry has very little information on the clan, save for what can easily be regarded as common knowledge.

At first glance, the Von Finsterwalds seem like just another rich old wizarding family. Ferdinand likes to play the philanthropist too, throwing money at any cause he can think of. He also tends to be extremely cooperative and appropriately astonished every time the Aurors decide to comb his estate.

Hermione wonders if this is merely a game to him; a test of wills to see how much he can toy with those in power, how far he can push them before someone snaps.

If only she could talk to Bill without showing her face, but even that wouldn't necessarily do her any good.

She isn't even certain he'd want to help. He seems to have retreated from society, and given what the outside world is like these days—especially for those who happen to deviate from the norm—she can't really blame him.

***

By the end of the fifth week, thanks to Bill's patient care, Hermione's wounds have healed completely and any permanent scarring will be minimal.

She jumps from the sofa and stretches languidly, only to immediately stop where she stands when a chilling realisation hits her.

He forgot all about full moon.

So did she, and she really should have put two and two together much sooner. He's been tense all day, muttering and swearing under his breath, slamming doors and cupboards shut with more force than strictly necessary.

_Oh God._

She looks up as he strides into the room. His breathing is ragged, his fists are clenched, and his fingernails, which are always longer when he's about to transform, are digging into his palms.

She knows those hands will change into paws soon, with claws that are lethally sharp, and she doesn't even want to think about what will happen to his teeth.

She swallows hard. She has to do something soon; put a halt to this before his condition gets out of hand.

This is partly her fault to begin with. He has been neglecting his own needs and changing his regular routines lately because he's been so pre-occupied with looking after her.

He forgot to take the antidote, or he took it too late.

It's scary to consider, even for a moment, what might happen if he ventures out into the woods tonight. If he leaves the cottage in his current state—and _if_ is fast becoming _when_; anyone can see that—innocent blood will be spilled.

There is only one thing for it.

Hermione leaps towards the wand that lies discarded on the sideboard. Within an instant, she's human again and aiming the wand straight at him.

"Stupefy!"

Bill slumps down to the floor before he gets the chance to react.

Part of her is concerned that he now knows her identity.

No doubt harsh words will be spoken later, along with stern accusations she knows she deserves.

None of that matters yet. His safety has to come first.

There exists no such thing as amnesty when a werewolf loses control, not even if there is no record of previous violence.

The Wizengamot's verdict in such cases is always ruthless.

  
***

"Granger," he says flatly when she finally faces him the following morning at breakfast.

There is a wild, wayward look in his eyes, but he is eating his toast and drinking his tea like nothing happened.

So the good news is that her intervention has worked; this time.

Determined to act casual, she takes a seat on the kitchen stool across from him. "Morning Bill," she mutters, feeling ill at ease and more than a little guilty.

"I didn't know you were an Animagus," he says. The bitterness in his tone is almost tangible.

"Yes, well," she replies, "it's um, still a fairly recent thing… I started working on it about two months before you rescued me."

"Only two months, no less." He smiles without humour. "Looks like you did a bang-up job of it then. You already had some randy hounds chasing after you."

That remark is unexpected and does nothing to alleviate her awkwardness. She blushes, despite herself, and starts to explain, "I, um, I'd been trying to befriend them, or rather, suss them out for information."

He raises a questioning eyebrow. "What kind of information?"

She bites her lip, unsure how much to reveal. She knows she can trust him—at least, she assumes she can—but she also realises the extent of her foolishness, and she'd rather not have her nose rubbed in it.

"Something I accidentally overheard during Auror training," she begins carefully. "Two of my superiors were discussing an important case. Hearing them talk, it occurred to me that maybe I should try to help."

Bill studies her face for any signs of jest. "You're training to be an Auror?" He sounds… not exactly impressed, but definitely pleasantly surprised.

She nods slowly and hopes with all her heart that this won't trigger an avalanche of difficult questions.

"Shouldn't you be contacting your HQ then?" he puts to her. "Won't they be concerned about your current whereabouts? Or did you already find some way to tell them that your mission went awry?"

Hermione swallows hard. How easy it would be to lie, to just nod or utter a "Yes", but she can't bring herself to tell him anything but the truth, not after everything he has done to help her.

"No, er, I—" She inhales sharply before continuing, "The mission was entirely my own idea. They don't know the first thing about it, and if they ever do find out what I've been up to, I'll most likely get kicked out of the programme." She sighs. "I might even have to face some official reprimand."

He shakes his head and bites back a chuckle. "So the great Hermione Granger has finally stuffed something up. Sweet merciful Merlin; that I'd ever live to see this day!"

"Now, look here," she begins to protest, but he holds up a hand to silence her, and asks, "What about your friends, though? Some of them must be worried and missing you right now."

She shrugs. "Not really. I've lost touch with most of them. Not on purpose, though. We went our separate ways after Hogwarts, and well, that's how life goes sometimes."

"Hm," he mutters.

She isn't surprised that he doesn't question her solitude further. After all, he has been living like a recluse for a good number of years, himself. He hardly sees anyone aside from the people who buy his art and the elderly wizard who supplies him with Wolfsbane.

He has even cut off most contact with his family. For their own safety, he said. He'd never forgive himself if he accidentally attacked one of them.

His next question is expected, but no less painful for it. "What about Ron, though?"

She swallows the lump in her throat. "We split up a few months after the war," she tells him, and fervently hopes he won't press for more information.

She'd really rather not talk about this. The break-up itself was amicable enough, but it remains painful to be confronted with the fact that the boy she was in love with for so long—her first love—

truly wasn't right for her in the end.

"Ah." He stirs his tea. "Well, can't say I'm terribly surprised. He's a good bloke, our Ron, salt of the earth, but you're a little bit out of his league, if you ask me."

She gazes at him, eyes wide. "I-I am?"

He nods. Then adds with a grin, "More than a little, if you want my honest opinion."

He starts to butter another slice of toast, and she understands that this part of their conversation is finished.

She's relieved, but mostly puzzled. No one else ever doubted her and Ron's compatibility, certainly none of the Weasleys. The news of their break-up was met with surprised disappointment.

Bill's reaction is both odd and refreshing.

***

It's a cold evening, four nights before the next full moon.

She is still staying at the cottage. Her continued presence is based on an unspoken agreement, or rather the fact that Bill hasn't yet asked her to leave.

She, for her part, has nowhere else to go.

To the outside world, she's still presumed missing, or perhaps they merely assume she quit—shot through without an explanation—and no one even bothered to look for her.

Either way, it would be unwise for her to return at this stage.

One way or another, the Ministry would figure out what she tried to do, and discover the fiasco that followed. She'd be thrown out of the training programme quick smart. This is the real world, after all, not Hogwarts.

In the real world, there tend to be consequences when you break the rules you're meant to ensure others uphold.

Hermione wonders what's next, which direction her life will take from now on.

She had her sights set on becoming an Auror. It had been her only goal ever since the war.

Well, she's still young. She supposes there remains plenty of time still to replace one dream with another.

In the meantime, she does chores around the house and keeps herself busy with reading and gardening while Bill paints.

Occasionally—once every fortnight, if that—he travels to the nearby village to meet a potential buyer. None of the art lovers ever visits him at home.

"There's too much magic in this cottage," he explains one afternoon. "Muggles get suspicious or plain spooked, and it's such a bother to have to Obliviate people all the time."

She doesn't question him any further, though part of her thinks that perhaps she ought to.

  
***

Weeks turn into months.

There are no further incidents. Bill takes his potion religiously and Hermione suffers no after-effects from the attack.

Winter is just around the corner.

So is Christmas.

She wonders how he'll spend the Holiday season. He no longer visits the Burrow, and even though that's entirely his own decision, a solitary Christmas has to be hard after growing up in such a large, tight knit family.

One night she finds him sitting on the sofa by the fireplace, the one where she started her recovery all those months ago.

He smiles at her.

She smiles back.

He is a kind, generous man, and right now her heart goes out to him. She has grown to feel quite close to him—connected somehow.

She never expected that.

She never intended to befriend him, let alone…

They've been dancing around each other for ages; or it seems like ages at least.

She joins him on the sofa. "You're not the only one, you know," she says, moves closer, slowly trailing a finger along his jaw like she's mapping out some of the many scars he has there.

She doesn't mind those scars. They're part of who he is. Besides, she has plenty of her own. Hers just aren't visible on the outside.

"The only one?" he asks, not a clue what she means.

"Who gets lonely," she says, and gazes into his eyes. She knows she's affecting him. It's close to full moon, and she's willing to bet that he hasn't been with anyone since Fleur. He's not the type to mess around, even though his affliction must make it even more difficult for him to suppress his basic instincts.

"This is a terrible idea, Hermione," he says, fast catching on. "The last thing you'd want would be to end up stuck with me for the rest of your life."

She continues stroking his cheek. "That's for me to decide, Bill."

He grabs her hand, holds it in his own, and shakes his head. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into. You lived through the war. What am I saying? You were practically on the front line. You must have seen some of Fenrir's other victims; ones that didn't make it. I mean, God, I shouldn't have to explain this to you, Granger! You know how dangerous werewolves are. For Merlin's sake, you had to Stupefy me once! If you hadn't intervened that day, I'd hate to think what—"

"You don't have to think about that," she interjects. "Whatever might have happened then never did, and it's pointless to speculate."

He blinks. "You're simplifying matters, Hermione, and refusing to look facts in the face. That's not like you at all."

"Speculation isn't fact," she tells him.

Bill almost laughs, except, this really isn't funny. "All right. Let's stick to the facts then. For one thing, I managed to chase off Fleur. She's part-Veela. She was completely devoted to me; had me pegged as the love of her life. Then the Lycanthropy got worse and her love wasn't strong enough to handle it. That must tell you something, surely?"

"About Fleur, yes," Hermione states plainly, "but I'm not her."

He gives a wry grin. "No. You're not."

"Is that a bad thing?" she asks, pulling her hand back and placing it in her lap.

"It's different," he replies.

"Different," she parrots, struggling not to snap at him.

"Yeah. Different. Not the same."

His grin is so cheeky she can't find it within herself to be angry anymore. "You're just like your brothers," she says with a slight roll of her eyes. "Or rather, just as bad."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he retorts, and she can't decide whether she wants to slap his face or kiss him.

In the end, she does neither. There is laundry to be folded.

If only she'd…

She gets up from the sofa and starts walking in the direction of the kitchen.

"Hermione," he says, interrupting her musings and causing her to turn around and face him again.

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking. They wouldn't kick you out if you helped them, would they? If you showed up with some amazing discovery that would mean a breakthrough for their case, they'd have no just cause not to let you finish your training, right?"

She blinks, his words barely registering. "A-Are you talking about the Aurors?"

"That's right, yeah. They'd be pissed off, rant and rave some, but they'd keep you around in the end. A valuable asset is always a valuable asset, regardless of any pigheadedness that comes with it."

"I-I suppose," she says. "But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Here"—she gestures around the room—"all by yourself. I don't think I could…" Her voice trails off. She hasn't a clue how to finish that sentence, or whether it would even be wise to say anything more at all.

He rises to his feet. "Were you serious just now?"

She takes a few steps forward until she's standing in front of him. "How do you mean, serious?"

"Your little game of seduction…"

"I—" she begins, but he continues, "I won't deny that I feel a strong attraction between us—a kind of bond, even—but I wouldn't want… to put you in any kind of danger. I'd never forgive myself."

"Danger." She inhales sharply. "I'm a big girl, Bill, and like I said before, I decide which risks I'm willing to take. It's not your place to make that decision for me."

He raises his eyebrows. "And what if I do end up hurting you?"

She shakes her head, determined. "You won't."

"How can you be so certain? These instincts, these _urges_ I have. I..."

She takes another step closer, closing the last remaining distance between them. "You're a good man, Bill. Fenrir didn't change that. Nothing or no one can change that."

Then she kisses him, emphasising her words. She wants to make him see. She has to make him believe, in this, in himself, in a future that's a world removed from his lonely existence of these past few years.

He looks at her, doubt written all over his face, and mutters, "I hope we won't end up regretting this."

"It's better to regret something you did do than something you didn't," Hermione says, and upon noticing his confused look, clarifies, "That's always been one of Luna's mottos. It seemed fitting."

Bill frowns. "Luna's the blonde one with hippie garb, right? A little barmy? Had a crush on our Ron once?"

Hermione smiles. "She isn't quite what she seems, and she has a way of growing on you."

"Ah. That's something the two of you have in common, then." He grins, places his hands on her shoulders, and for a long moment doesn't speak at all.

She can tell that this is her cue to express any second thoughts she might be having, but finding a way out is just about the last thing on her mind.

She leans closer and kisses him again. She isn't afraid. There is nothing to be afraid of. Not with him.

"Bedroom," she whispers.

He takes her hand and leads the way.

  
***

She has been in his room once before.

On the night he was about to transform into a fully-fledged wolf, she put him to bed.

Of course, those were entirely different circumstances.

She didn't really look at him then, not in the way she is looking at him now. She was too concerned for his safety—and to a lesser extent her own—to think about anything else.

"All right, Hermione?" This time, he's the worried one. "You know, you don't have to go through with this if you've decided you'd rather not."

She shakes her head. "No," she says firmly. "I want to."

"Right. I have to tell you, though; it's been awhile. The last time I did anything like this was"—he gives her a sheepish grin—"a few years ago."

"Oh." She shrugs. "Well, it's probably just like riding a bike."

He blinks in confusion. "Er, that's an odd way to describe sex. Another one of Luna's theories, I gather?"

"No." Hermione sniggers. "Don't take it literally, Bill. It's a Muggle saying. Basically, you never, um, unlearn making love. You can't."

"Ah. Well, that's good to know. Quite reassuring."

She can sense his anxiety. It isn't unlike her own. It has been a few years since she was last intimate with someone, too.

After her break-up with Ron, she never bothered trying to date again. The very idea had had 'too forced' and 'too soon' written all over it.

Besides, she wanted to concentrate on other things and put her supposedly brilliant mind to some good use for a change. Funny how that worked out in the end; or rather, didn't.

Still, this isn't something she should be thinking about now…

She moves to stand on her tiptoes. "I haven't done anything like this in ages either," she admits in a whisper, and softly presses her lips against his.

He kisses her back eagerly, at the same time unbuttoning her blouse.

She shivers as his fingers caress every inch of newly exposed skin. His lips brush her jaw line and neck, before travelling down to her cleavage.

Letting her eyes flutter shut, she tilts her head back and sighs. She had almost forgotten how good this feels.

He undoes the zipper of her skirt. It's a Muggle garment he stole from a washing line a few days after she first revealed her identity. He nicked a matching blouse, too.

Hermione has done some shopping since—the nearby village, despite being virtually in the middle of nowhere, has a lovely selection of clothes shops—but somehow she prefers this outfit.

Without a sound, the skirt lands on the floor.

"Let's get more comfortable," Bill suggests. His tone still carries a vague hint of uncertainty, but he undresses in front of her as if he has already done so a hundred times before.

Hermione nods and follows him to the bed, removing all her remaining clothing before she sits down and moves into his waiting embrace.

They kiss, again and again.

He lies down and carefully pulls her on top of him. She straddles his thighs. He plays with her breasts, kneading them gently and flicking his thumbs over her nipples. She moans softly with each tender touch.

Her hand reaches for his cock. She strokes him, up and down, gradually picking up the pace.

He groans in appreciation. The fingers of his right hand seek out her clit. He begins to rub slowly, expertly. The delicious friction almost makes her scream.

"I want to be inside you," he whispers, his breathing harsh. "I need…"

She kisses his cheek. "L-Like this?" she asks, her eyes wide and her face flushed. "Don't you want me to, um, turn over or something?"

"No." He grins. "Stay right where you are, love. I want you on top of me. If you don't mind?"

"Right." She swallows hard. "Yes. Okay." She positions herself and carefully guides his hard length inside her. She has never done it like this before, but it's an interesting change.

At Bill's nod, she begins to move—slowly, taking her time. It's very nice to be able to determine the pace herself, and Bill seems to be enjoying it too, if those sounds he's making are any indication.

"You're gorgeous, you know," he whispers, out of nowhere. "Merlin, I wish you could see yourself right now; you're so damned beautiful."

Hermione blushes furiously. People compliment her on her cleverness all the time—at least when they aren't berating her for it—but her looks rarely get a mention. "Um, thanks," she mutters, almost inaudibly.

He continues stroking between her legs. His free hand grabs her bum and pulls her closer, making her take him in deeper.

"Oh God." She gasps, moving up and down quickly—frantically—now. "Bill!"

She can feel the familiar waves of pleasure begin to build. She throws her head back and goes just a tiny bit faster still, changing the angle slightly—_there_.

Stars burst behind her eyes and this time she does scream as she loses herself to one of the best orgasms she has ever had.

A few more hard thrusts, and he spills himself inside her, grunting out her name.

Still shivering, she gazes down at him.

Through his haze, he grins at her, strokes her hair and leans up to kiss her forehead.

She lies down, resting her head against his chest. He wraps an arm around her shoulders.

"Well," he remarks with a low chuckle, as soon as he has managed to catch his breath, "turns out your little 'bike' theory has some merit."

"Mm," she murmurs and can't stop the goofy grin from spreading across her face.

"Sleep here tonight?" he suggests, ruffling her hair tenderly.

"Yes," she whispers, glad he asked. She wasn't sure whether to broach the topic herself. She is wretchedly out of practice when it comes to relationships.

Then again, so is he, and yet they seem to be doing pretty well so far.

Hermione closes her eyes. It doesn't take long before she drifts off to sleep, feeling safe and cherished, and overcome with a sense of belonging she hasn't experienced in a long time.

  
***

**Two Months Later**

  
Climbing the marble stairs, she clutches the thick folder in her left hand.

It's strange to return here after all that time; rather daunting, too.

At least she didn't come alone.

Bill is right be her side, just like he promised.

He surprised her in the end. Two days after their first night together and the long talk about the future that followed, he finally told her his secret.

He shared his plans, and the outcome of everything he'd accomplished thus far.

She never took him for a vigilante—out to hunt ill-meaning werewolves and other savage creatures like them—but perhaps she should have known better.

He isn't the type to be a full-time painter. He's too adventurous— too action-oriented—always has been.

Those paintings are merely a cover, and an excellent source of income.

A Weasley never gives up.

They heard back from the lab yesterday; an undercover lab run by Neville Longbottom and some Muggle scientists.

Funny, Hermione never knew about Neville's new career, either. So many things whizzed her by when she was busy chasing her own ambitions.

What the lab uncovered from the saliva found in one of the bite wounds in her neck—Bill took a sample while she was still unconscious—isn't exactly hard evidence, not enough to lead to an arrest, but it's a place to start looking, and that's more than the Aurors themselves have managed to find in years.

The elf nods curtly and waves a gangly hand. The heavy doors swing open like it's nothing.

Hermione swallows hard.

"Ready?" Bill asks.

She takes his arm and nods. "Ready."

Two sets of footsteps, perfectly in tune, echo through the corridor.

Faces—some familiar, some not—frown from behind desks, but no one says a word. They don't dare. They know something important is about to happen. A change.

Hermione smiles. It's good to be back.  



End file.
